Bentley Little - The Store

Ted regretted his behavior already, and he planned to apologize to Joe and offer him his old job back once The Store was finished. But Joe's dread seemed to have affected the rest of the men as well, and it had been an unusually somber few days. Hargus hadn't even brought his boom box to work, and Hargus brought his boom box everywhere.

Even he had felt uneasy, and though he'd tried to make sure they worked fast in order to finish this roof as quickly as possible, he also made sure they did the best job they could.

He didn't want to have to come back to fix mistakes.

He hadn't said word one to Charlinda, though. She still thought this job was a godsend, and he let her think so. She was superstitious enough as it was, what with all the astrology and tarot cards and crap, and the last thing he needed to do was tell her that Joe Walking Horse had walked and that they were all spooked by the place. That'd send her off the deep end.

He yelled out for everyone to take a ten-minute break, and he grabbed a beer out of the cooler and walked over to the edge of the roof, glancing down at the parking lot. It had just been given a layer of sealant the day before, and was scheduled to be painted tomorrow. The lot was massive, stretching all the way out to the edge of the highway, big enough to accommodate every vehicle in town with room to spare. Nine acres of asphalt.

It was a shame, really, because this had been such a nice meadow. With only minimal effort, it would have been possible to do what had been done with Buy-and-Save or KFC -- construct the lot to fit the contours of the land and keep the biggest and best trees. But not only had the existing trees been cut down and hauled away, no new ones had been planted.

No shade.

In Arizona.

He shook his head. Oh, well. He supposed it would boost The Store's sale of windshield sunscreens come June.

Actually, he was a little surprised by the lack of landscaping. Even small businesses usually tried to make their places attractive and eye-pleasing. But The Store's exterior was strictly functional: tan cinder-block building, white sidewalk border, flat black parking lot. No plants, no trees, no decoration. It looked more like a prison than a retail outlet.

Below, a worker carrying a large metal pole was walking out of The Store to his truck, parked directly in front of the entrance.

Ted looked off into the distance. Hargrove's death hadn't even slowed down construction. The Store had simply brought in one of its own men, and work had continued, alternating shifts working twenty-four hours a day the last two weeks in order to meet the deadline for the bonus.

He'd heard from Frank Wilson, who'd worked with Hargrove on the project, that the building had a basement as deep as all get out, and that there were a couple of other construction quirks that The Store had insisted upon. No one knew why, but no one had dared ask, and The Store's plans had been followed to the letter.

Dead birds and secret basements.

It was all a little . . . spooky.

No, not a little.

A lot.

Shivering, he finished off his beer, dropped the can on the roof, and walked back to where he'd been working.

2

"Can I talk to you?"

Shannon looked up from the dirt to see Mindy Hargrove sitting on the weathered pine bench by the side of the road that served as a school bus stop.

Mindy hadn't been to school much lately, had been acting, well, weird, since her dad died, but now she looked positively freaked. Her hair was uncombed, her jeans filthy, her once-white blouse half-unbuttoned. There was a wildness to her eyes and the cast of her features that Shannon had never seen before and that made her feel a little bit frightened. She wondered if Mindy was having some sort of nervous breakdown, if she'd gone crazy, and she quickly looked up and down the road, searching for signs of someone else, but there was no one here except Mindy and herself.

"Uh, I have to get going," Shannon said. "I'm late already, and my mom's waiting for me."

Mindy stood, walked toward her. "I know your dad doesn't like The Store.

That's why I thought I could talk to you."

Shannon shifted her books from her left hand to her right. Mindy had been bad enough when she'd been a spoiled stuck-up bitch, but this new Mindy, this intense, emotionally disturbed Mindy who for some strange reason wanted to talk to her, even though they'd been bitter enemies since third grade, was even worse. She wanted to get out of here and away from her as quickly as she could, but she forced herself to remain pleasant and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. "It's not that he doesn't like The Store. It's more that he doesn't like where they're building it and the way they're building it."

Mindy glanced furtively around to make sure they weren't being spied upon.

"It's built with blood," she said.

Shannon started backing away, keeping her eyes on the other girl. "Look, I've really gotta go."

"I'm serious. They put blood in the concrete. It was in the plans they gave my dad. Tell your dad. Maybe he can tell that guy from the newspaper and they can do something about it."

"Okay," Shannon said, humoring her. "I'll tell him."

"It's built with blood. That's why my dad was killed."

Your dad was killed because he was driving drunk, Shannon thought, but she smiled and nodded and continued backing away, finally quickening her pace, breaking into a jog. She looked behind her as she ran, but the road was empty, the bench was empty, and Mindy was gone.

3

Bill finished the GIS documentation on the last Saturday of January. He uploaded the completed manual, sent it off to the company, and celebrated the way he did at the end of every project: he opened his middle desk drawer, took out a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, cranked up the radio, leaned back in his chair, and enjoyed.

He stared out the window as he ate. It had been raining for two days, the rain melting away the last of the snow, and it was still drizzling now, the trees outside little more than black silhouettes in the mist. He finished his Reese's, tossed the wrapper in the wastepaper basket. This was when he was really able to take advantage of the fact that he worked at home. Instead of sitting at his desk, finding papers to shuffle, pretending to look busy for the benefit of any supervisors who happened to pass by, he could watch TV, read a book, take a trip, do whatever he wanted until the next project came along. He was on salary, not an hourly wage, and as long as he did his work and met his deadlines, the company didn't care how he spent his extra hours.

In other words, his competence and efficiency were rewarded with spare time.

God bless technology.

He switched off his computer, stood, stretched, and walked out of his office and down the hall. The kitchen smelled of Campbell's tomato soup, and the insides of the windows were fogged with condensation. It seemed warm, cozy, and comfortable, and with the girls gone, it felt almost the way it had when they were newlyweds, when they were too poor to go anywhere or do anything and their chief form of entertainment had been sex.

Ginny was at the stove, stirring the soup, and he walked behind her, reached his hand between her legs, grabbed her. She yelled for him to knock it off and practically hit him with the spoon, a spattering of hot soup hitting his cheek. "Jesus!" he said.

"That'll teach you not to sneak up on me like that."

He wiped the soup off his cheek. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," she said. "I'm making lunch. I wasn't expecting to be molested."

"Who did you think it was? I'm the only one in the house."

"That's not the point."

"I used to do that all the time. You used to like it."